


Treat

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling, F/M, Masturbation, PIV Sex, PWP, Reader fic - Freeform, whatever the kink is where the dude likes to smell panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 16:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: You catch Steve jerking off. Smut ensues.





	Treat

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. Captain America belongs to Marvel. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
> 
> Author’s Note: Sometimes we just have to write flash fic. And then Steve demands a few hundred extra words so it’s more like a ficlet because he’s greedy.

It’s the long low sigh that stops you in the hall. The bedroom door is open, just a crack, and when you look… there he is. Naked, on the bed, the blanket bunched around him. He’s propped up against pillows against the headboard, one knee bent. His fist is tight around his cock and with the other hand, he’s holding your panties to his face.

The panties you were wearing last night when he…

Oh.

You forget how to breathe as he strokes himself. He hasn’t forgotten–his chest rises, holds, falls, and he’s sighing again, a drawn-out groan of a thing. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush. He strokes as slow as he breathes.

Maybe your knees are a little jelly-like. Maybe it’s good the hall is narrow and the wall is solid.

His knee falls and his thighs are spread, and this time as his fist moves down, his hips rock up. His hand slides back until he’s fisting the head of his cock and he shifts his wrist until he can play the tips of his fingers up under the head of it, pressing one-two-three. His head goes back, your panties still held to his face, and he groans.

You’ve never seen this before. You’ve never had the chance. The only times you’ve seen him touch himself have been perfunctory, purposeful for your benefit–shifting himself in his shorts, a quick stroke with a handful of lube. You knew he had to do it–who doesn’t? And you’ve thought about it, of course. Wondered what he thought about. Where he liked it. How he liked it.

What a treat it is.

He stops. He’s straining, the tension in his thighs and belly and even in his arm evident by the tremors. He’s heaving breaths, chest rising and falling rapidly. He’s close. He’s so close, why doesn’t he keep going?

Your hand steals between your own legs. Under the skirt, the dress that had seemed cool and easy that morning when you’d rolled out of bed to dash out for a few. Now it’s just… easy. Push the panties aside. Creamy lace, like the black ones he’s got in his hand, on his face– Oh. There’s a thought.

His hand is moving again.

He strokes like he’s fighting, like every pull is a battle he doesn’t want to lose, like he’s working to keep it slow, keep it steady. When his hips rock, his hand stills. The muscle of his thigh jumps and he leaves your panties on his face to skate his big hand across his chest, to cup his pec, to dig his fingers into flesh. He does that sometimes with you, stops and just… holds on.

You slide your fingers between the lips of your cunt. If it weren’t for the panties, you’d be dripping. The tip of a finger slides over your clitoris and your knees threaten to give out on you entirely. Okay. All right. You split two fingers, frame your clit, and rock your hips forward, against your hand. You don’t look away from him.

This is his, you know. He’s doing it for himself, not for you, but it doesn’t feel that way, not when he’s holding himself that tight, pushing up into his fist with the same steady rhythm he uses when he’s fucking you.

When he’s fucking you.

You know that little twitch of his hips. The short strokes.

You shove away from the wall and move to the door. You push it open. “Stop.”

He freezes. Lifts his head, and your panties drop to his chest. His eyes are bright, glassy, a little unseeing, and his hair is sticking up. He’s flushed. You couldn’t see that from the hall, but his cheeks and neck are almost as red as his cock.

His mouth works, like he’s trying to say something, but no sound comes out.

But he’s still looking at you, and that’s the important part. You don’t want to be standing anymore. You want to be up there, on top of him, his hands on your hips– Deep ragged breath. This first.

You lift your skirt and his eyes go immediately to the apex of your thighs. Good. He’ll see. You push your panties down and you can tell when he sees because there’s that sharp little gasp and his fingers clench on his dick. He groans.

He groans again when you climb up onto the bed and straddle his hips. When you rub the parted lips of your cunt against the head of his cock.

You put a hand on his chest, for balance, and his hands go to your thighs, sliding up under the dress until he can hold your hips. You can’t look away from his face. He looks lost. Gone. Away from here. You knock the panties off of him and hold up the new ones. The ones you just took off.

His eyes flicker from you to the lace and back. He looks… worried. Briefly.

Until you drop them over his mouth and nose and his eyes close and his head goes back. His fingers on your hips clench.

You tilt your hips, catching the head of his cock against your clit and dragging your cunt against it until you’re poised. Until you can sink. So you do.

He does it again. Groans. His hips jump and he’s buried inside you. Shift, and he’s dragged out of you, the catch of him beautiful, the heat and thickness of him wonderfully filling.

For long moments, you linger there, on the feel of him sliding in, dragging out, the size of him, the depth. And then his hand is stealing from your hip, his thumb sliding through your curls to find your clit, and, oh. You rock against his hand, fighting the full-body shiver that makes you want to close your eyes so you can watch his face as he fucks you, as he touches you, as he draws the wet lace into his mouth.

He sets his thumb there, right there, and he measures his thrusts, and it’s too much. Your elbow gives out and you slump over his chest, face against his neck, and you’re clamping your thighs to his waist, riding his hand and his cock like you’ll die if you don’t come.

When you do it’s relief washed over you, a wave breaking, and you whimper against his hot skin.

He’s right behind you, hips up, shoved in so deep, and he groans loud and long and with everything in him.

When he relaxes, sinking back into the pillows, legs sprawled, his thumb swipes over your clit. You have to wrap your fingers around his wrist to stop him.

“Too much.”

He laughs and turns his face. Your panties are gone–fell off, probably, you think dimly. His mouth is there and it tastes like you.

“Way too much,” he agrees.

He wraps his arms around you and holds you tight to the front of him. He laughs again, takes a deep breath like he can’t believe he can do it.

Your knees aren’t going to work anytime soon, and anyway where else do you want to be? Nowhere. You slide your arms around him and leave your head on his shoulder and close your eyes again.


End file.
